Most of ’em are screaming and running, but some of ’em are standing, holding fire sticks like they know what to do with ’em—and they must, ’cause I heard the CRACKS.

And the only thing standing ’tween the Icers and the Glassy soldiers are…

Bodies.

Scattered on the ground like stones.

Chapter Twenny-One

Dazz

It took a chill of a lot of running around and talking to people to get them to calm down. Buff agreed to stay back with our families as I worked with Abe and his conspirators to collect all the weapons from the fallen soldiers. Curly Mustache Man looked like he was about to complain, but after a quick glance at Abe’s fire stick, he backed off.

The minority reps are suddenly controlling the show. “We’re going back,” I say to Buff and the others as I approach them.

“I don’t understand,” Buff’s father says. “Why did they kill the soldiers? Weren’t they protecting us?”

“Yah, protecting us right off a cliff,” I say. “We can’t trust them. They want us all dead, or controlled, or both. They think we’re savages.”

“The people need to rest,” Mother says. “They’re tired, they’re scared.”

“No time. We have to go now,” I say. “We can rest when we get home.” Then I have to find Skye, tell her what’s happening, and figure out what to do next. Rekindle the Unity Alliance.

Abe and his people are giving the message to the rest of the village. Questions are met with rebukes. No time for questions. Finally, everyone gives in, start to shoulder their packs, get their carts moving back the way we came. “Let’s do it,” Buff says, positioning himself under a cart handle.

Growls in the distance.

No.

Coming fast.

No.

Getting louder.

No.

And then they’re there, a dozen vehicles, standing on a hill, looking down at us like desert gods. Someone screams, “Oh, Heart, no!” and then a lot of people are screaming and shouting and running.

No. Please, no. Not my family. Not our people. Not this.

“Run!” I shout to those in the cart. My mother scrambles down, helps Jolie, then Buff’s injured father. The kids spill out, tripping all over themselves, fleeing in front of everyone, joining the stampede. Jolie looks back at me. C’mon! her face says.

“Go!” I yell. “Go with Mother!”

“Not without you,” she cries.

“Now!” I say, turning back the other way, blinking her scared face out of my head.

Abe and his people are aiming fire sticks at the top of the hill.

CRACK! The first report of a weapon, probably Abe’s, the one who seems the most confident with them. Our enemies dive for cover and three more shots hammer away.

Buff and I run to Abe and he tosses us each a weapon from a pile. I catch it awkwardly, gaping at the hot metal. I fight with my fists, not with knives or swords or clubs…certainly not with fire sticks. But what choice do I have? I can’t fight fire with punches and kicks. I have to try.

I don’t even know how to hold it, but I watch what he does. “Point and press this thing,” he says, showing me a little lever. I mimic his motions, try to hold it like him, wondering how he figured this out all on his own.

Half a dozen shots slam into my eardrums, raining down from the hill. A guy directly to my left slumps over, blood pouring from a hole in his forehead. Down the line from Abe, another man falls.

Then the fire chariots growl and come roaring down the hill.

“Ruuuun!” Abe bellows, taking off in the other direction. We do, pumping our legs as fast as we can, and at some point I realize we’re all trying not to be the slowest one, because the slowest one will get caught first, killed first. And I glance back, and the slowest one is…it’s Buff.

The vehicles are gaining on us. A shot rings out and I hear the whine as something screams past my head. A miss. No. Fifty feet beyond us a little girl falls, her hand slipping away from where it was clutching her father’s as they fled. He looks back, his face a sheet of white terror and then he stops, falls to his knees, slumps over her. Curly Mustache Man.

None of his slanted words can save her now.

I look back again. Buff passes someone, one of the reps from the Black District. CRACK! The guy stumbles, falls, dies.

Why are they doing this? Is it because we broke the alliance, killed their soldiers, shot at them? Doesn’t make sense. Why would they send so many soldiers to meet us when we already had an armed escort? Was this always the plan? To slaughter us as we crossed the desert wasteland? I suspect the answer is yes. Abe knew it and he tried to do something to change our fates, but it was too little, too late.

We can’t escape. We have no choice but to stand and fight. Try to give the rest of them a chance. Our families. My family.

“Abe!” I yell. He’s ahead of me and looks back. “We have to fight!”

He nods and stops. “Turn and fire!” he yells.

We do. We turn and fire.

The CRACKS! explode in my ears and my fire stick rocks against my shoulder, sending spears of pain dancing through my already sore muscles. Sparks fly against the metal vehicles as they rush toward us. One of us gets lucky and a soldier tumbles from the back, rolling away in a cloud of dust.

They respond with shots of their own and another one of us dies, I’m not sure who. We keep firing even as they roar closer, and the weapon dances in my hand, like it’s alive. I force it steady against my shoulder, although I know it’s going to hurt, and aim at one of the vehicles. CRACK! Shards of rock shiver through my bones, but it works! Cracks form in the glass at the front and I can see someone slumped inside, his arm hanging awkwardly out the window.

The vehicle lurches sharply to its right, slamming hard into the flank of another one. There are more sparks as the domino effect continues, ratcheting across three or four other chariots. The one on the end loses its center of gravity and rolls, throwing men and women and guns around and off it like a folded hand of cards. The other vehicles follow, crashing into each other, bouncing around and eventually slamming into the overturned one. The soldiers in the back aren’t moving.

“Shoot at the front windows!” I scream, even as another one of us gets hit, falling almost right in front of me.

I fire and another window shatters, but the soldiers inside are still alive, staring at us. One of them aims a weapon and blasts away…

Abe goes down, blood spilling from his neck. This can’t be…this isn’t…

Buff and I fire in short succession, and both men in the front die. But the vehicle lurches the wrong direction, away from the other enemies, angling off harmlessly into the desert.

A half a dozen enemy carriers, still coming, shooting…

Another Icer slumps over and I swivel my head from side to side. Everyone dead. Everyone except Buff and me. I shoot. Nothing happens. Buff shoots and a soldier rolls into the dirt.

Enemy shots crackle.

Buff groans and falls.

No.

His chest is covered in blood.

Not my brother.

He’s trying to speak, but his lips are red and slick.

Like Wes. Just like Wes. Not a brother by blood, but a brother just the same. I wasn’t man enough to save him.

Shots ring out, but this time they’re different. Not hammers in my ears but punches in my chest. Sharp pressure. My legs fail me. The last sounds I hear are muffled and unreal, like maybe this was all a dream. A very bad dream. A nightmare.

Screams and growls and cracks like thunder.

Just a nightmare. A bad dream.

Go back to sleep, Dazz.

But they’re screaming—the children and the people and my sister. They’re all screaming.

Just a dream. I close my eyes and sleep.